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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29906136">Secrets Secrets and Advice (this teacher's vice)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/AppleScentedLazers/pseuds/AppleScentedLazers'>AppleScentedLazers</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Danny Phantom</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Identity Reveal, Is that thing???, Lancer Appreciation Week, One Shot, POV Outsider, Reveal, Technically a Two-Shot</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-03-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-15 19:14:38</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,606</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29906136</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/AppleScentedLazers/pseuds/AppleScentedLazers</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>After a particularly grueling day Mr. Lancer just wants to go home, kick up his feet, eat his plain toast, and read some Shakespeare.</p><p> But, when he runs into two of his students looking for their missing best friend, Lancer ends up with more questions than he has answers for. Such as, just what is Danny Fenton hiding? What's his connection to Phantom? Why is ectoplasm so <em>green?</em> </p><p>And, more importantly, why is there a ghost-boy bleeding out in the backseat of Lancer's car?</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Danny Fenton/Sam Manson</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>139</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>We've got some uh *checks itinerary* Angst with a dash of hurt/comfort</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>~ PART I ~</p>
<hr/><p>Mr. Edward Lancer was a simple man.</p><p>He liked his Shakespeare, his dry white toast by the poolside, and his job. He had a small house in Amity’s middle-class neighborhood and a cat that came and went as it pleased.</p><p>No loving wife (or husband—Lancer didn’t swing that way), no grandkids. No messy interpersonal relationships.</p><p>Everything had been perfect.</p><p>Now, Mr. Lancer was an English teacher, which meant that subtly executed past tense was not a typo.</p><p>Everything <em>had </em>been perfect, until he’d exited a particularly exhausting parent teacher interview on a particularly exhausting Friday night.</p><p>It’d been with two of Amity Park’s ghost enthusiasts, a Madeleine and Jack Fenton.</p><p>The parents had been discussing a certain wayward son of theirs, one who was barely passing half the classes in his senior year.</p><p>Mr. Lancer liked to think he didn’t expect much from his students. Just that they show up, be ready to learn, and strive for their absolute best.</p><p>One Daniel James Fenton, on the other hand, had been a completely different story.</p><p>The boy’s sister had been brilliant. Jasmine balanced extra curricular clubs along with after school tutoring, night courses, and a staggering overall average.</p><p>She’d charmed teachers and faculty alike, going on to pursue a promising career as a psychologist after high school.</p><p>Needless to say, when he’d first seen the name ‘Daniel <em>Fenton</em>’ on the attendance sheet for a freshman literature class, Lancer had expected no less than academic perfection.</p><p>It’d started out well. Young Mr. Fenton got passible grades in all of Lancer’s classes, excelling most in those of the math and scientific variety. He really was quite smart, quick thinking, and an excellent problem solver.</p><p>Which is why Mr. Lancer could still hardly believe the boy’s abrupt change. Almost as if someone had flicked a switch or pressed a button; suddenly Daniel was sleeping in class.</p><p>That is, sleeping when he bothered to show up at all.</p><p>From then on, it’d been only meager D’s and floundering F’s for the teen. Oh, how far the mighty had fallen.</p><p>Now, as Mr. Lancer fished his faculty keychain out of his pocket and locked the school doors behind him, he just wanted to go to bed.</p><p>Dealing with the older Fentons was exhausting on a good day. Telling them their son was failing half his classes and skipping more than a schoolgirl with a jump rope was absolutely <em>mind numbing</em>.</p><p>He grimaced, pulling his long overcoat tight against his chest to keep out the late fall chill. <em>Why was he still thinking about the Fentons? </em></p><p>After school was his one respite from them, how dare his mind sully precious free time with work-related thoughts.</p><p>Resolving not to think about his biggest problem child for the rest of the weekend, he steeled himself and stepped around the school, heading in the direction of the staff parking lot, when—</p><p>A body slammed into him, long limbed and writhing. He stumbled as the air was knocked from his chest, lungs scrambling as they found themselves prematurely empty.</p><p>He managed to suck in one breath, then another, as the body in front of him finally stilled.</p><p>It was Tucker Foley, grinning up at him toothily and looking annoyingly unapologetic.</p><p>But wait…Mr. Lancer narrowed his eyes into the darkness surrounding them. For if Mr. Foley was here, that meant either Daniel or Samantha wouldn’t be far behind.</p><p>Sure enough, the sound of sneakers slapping against pavement echoed from around the corner.</p><p>“Danny?” A decidedly effeminate voice called into the stillness, the <em>whack whack </em>whack of shoes getting steadily closer. “Danny, where are you—<em>eumph!</em>”</p><p>Another dark blur, this one with significantly paler skin, collided into Mr. Foley, who then re-collided into Mr. Lancer, who—having no one to collide with—tumbled to the ground.</p><p>Grunting again as the breath was knocked out of him, he narrowly dodged an elbow to the face as both teenagers fumbled around him.</p><p>“What the hell?!” Samantha Manson, eloquent as ever, snapped as she tried to extract herself from their tangled heap. “What the bloody—”</p><p>The girl then managed to sit up, finally catching sight of who, exactly, she and her best friend had just bowled into the ground.</p><p>Even in the darkness of oncoming night, Mr. Lancer could still make out the slight flush that coloured her cheeks at the sight of him. “Oh. Lancer. I meant, uh, what the bloody <em>heck</em>.”</p><p>“Nithely done, Tham.” Tucker’s muffled voice was barely audible from where he lay, buried beneath his friend. “Wouldth you mindth getting off me nothw?”</p><p>“Oh.” The Goth flushed a little darker, though she quickly covered it up with her customary scowl. “Right, of course.”</p><p>She gingerly got to her feet, revealing the pancaked boy beneath her. Mr. Lancer watched balefully as she helped Mr. Foley to his feet, even going so far as to dust the other boy off.</p><p>“Well,” Tucker said, before spitting into the well manicured grass at his feet. “I think I inhaled some of your hair.”</p><p>Samantha wrinkled her nose. “Gross.”</p><p>“It’s your hair, stupid.”</p><p>“In <em>your </em>mouth, four eyes.”</p><p>“Ahem,” The deeply ingrained part of Mr. Lancer, the one that’d helped him succeed as a teacher, recognised the beginning of a fight when it saw one. “Would either of you care to explain just what, <em>exactly, </em>you are doing here?”</p><p>Both children swivelled around to stare at him, as if they’d forgotten he was even there in the first place. Honestly, teenagers these days.</p><p>He resisted the urge to roll his eyes, knowing such an action would only exacerbate the headache steadily blooming at the base of his skull. It was a juvenile habit, anyway. One he should’ve dropped ages ago.</p><p>The two troublemakers exchanged nervous glances, a whole conversation passing between the simple looks.</p><p>Ever since freshman year, the trio had been inseparable. It truly wouldn’t surprise Lancer in the least if they’d figured out how to communicate telepathically.</p><p>Them and Daniel were like the Three Musketeers, if the Musketeers had skipped class and copied off each others homework. Mr. Lancer was fairly certain he’d even caught them exchanging answers for one of his tests <em>during </em>said test.</p><p>The sheer audacity of this generation would never fail to astound him.</p><p>(He admired it, in a way. But that was one of many secrets he’d take to his grave.)</p><p>The two finished up their wordless conversations, once again fixing their apprehensive gazes on Lancer.</p><p>“Depends.” Mr. Foley finally ventured. “Would you believe us if we told you we were going for a midnight stroll?”</p><p>“Depends.” He crossed both arms over his chest, giving them his best ‘I’m very disappointed in you’ stare. “Are you telling the truth?”</p><p>Tucker seemed to flounder about for a minute, mouth wagging as he obviously sought to come up with a better lie.</p><p>Fortunately for the poor boy’s brain—it looked as if it were about to overheat and drip out his ears—Samantha smoothly picked up the narrative.</p><p>The girl always had been better at those creative writing assignments.</p><p>“We were looking for Danny, you see. He seems to have…” She ignored the frantic <em>abort abort </em>gestures her friend was making at her, instead pursing her purple glossed lips as she often did when wrapping her mind around a difficult question. “Gone…missing.”</p><p>Despite the late hour and his current apathy for all things Fenton, Mr. Lancer couldn’t help the small thrum of fear the words sparked in his core. “Missing?” He hoped neither of them picked up on the rising frantic tone in his voice. “Have you called his parents?”</p><p>Mr. Foley muttered something that sounded an awful lot like “Nice going” under his breath.</p><p>Samantha, on the other hand, seemed to be struck with sudden inspiration. “Yes—I mean, no, but we’re not going to call them. They’re…well…they’re part of who he’s hiding from.”</p><p>Tucker looked absolutely horrified. “<em>Sam!</em>”</p><p>She shot him a dark look, the meaning of it so clear that even Lancer could decipher it: <em>Shut up</em>. Then the Goth turned back toward him, hands fidgeting in front of her,</p><p>“As you probably know, Danny’s been having a bit of a hard time this year. What with grad just around the corner, and all these schools to choose from.”</p><p>The most unbelievable part about all this was Daniel considering his education, but Mr. Lancer graciously decided to hear the girl out.</p><p>“And then there’s the pressure from his parents, who want him to, uh, join the family business. Make, um, ghost tech. Become ghost hunters, like them.”</p><p>Tucker snorted, like she’d said something amusing, then quickly tried to cover it up with a cough.</p><p>An ‘inside joke’, perhaps? He heard lots of kids had those nowadays.</p><p>Samantha paused, voice dropping on octave as she studied the grass by her sneakers, lips pursed again. “He carries so much on his shoulders and thinks he has to do it all by himself. As if we wouldn’t burn the world if it meant helping him. As if he doesn’t want us to be bothered when all I’ve ever wanted to do is—” She cut herself off, scrubbing furiously at her eyes with a worn sweater sleeve. “All I’ve ever wanted to do is <em>help </em>him.”</p><p>“Hey now,” Mr. Foley murmured softly, looking wet in the eyes himself. He placed an arm around her shoulders, pressing his weight into her side. “You know he doesn’t really think that.”</p><p>This had taken a disturbingly personal turn and Mr. Lancer was half tempted to run for it. He could be home right now, sipping Chai tea and re-reading <em>Pride and Prejudice</em>. Not standing behind the school, dew clinging to his pant legs, listening to teenage angst.</p><p>But something made Lancer stay.</p><p>Perhaps it was the question he’d been asking himself since the first time Danny Phantom had appeared in their city. A question he didn’t even know how to begin. Something in the mannerisms and expressions of the ghost boy, in the way his mouth turned up in that mischievous quirk…</p><p>Or perhaps it was just his own damn curiosity.</p><p>(Oops, he always did his best not to curse).</p><p>In front of him, Samantha was now angrily staring at her damp sweater sleeve as if <em>emoting </em>was the worst thing since meat-filled cafeteria food.</p><p>“So yeah, we were looking for him.”</p><p>Mr. Lancer stared at her for a moment, flummoxed. With teaching, this kind of thing came easy.</p><p>Needed help with poetic devices? Lancer was your man. Classical literature analysis? Five-thousand-word essay? College entry paper? He could do it all.</p><p>But relational life advice? They didn’t exactly go over that in the teacher’s handbook.</p><p>Despite that, it went against his morals to leave a student high and dry. Clearing his throat, he decided to give it a shot.</p><p>“Erm, from what I can see, Miss Manson, Daniel cares about the both of you a great deal. I believe he, too, would ‘burn the world down’ for either one of you. That is no great secret.”</p><p>He studied their doubtful expressions, realizing he was going to have to say more than that if he planned to convince them.</p><p>“I believe a certain Walter Winchell said it better, ‘A real friend is one who walks in when the rest of the world walks out’.” He made eye contact with them, noting the subtle changes since their first year.</p><p>Miss Manson still stuck out her chin, like she was just waiting for someone to come along and tear her down, but there was a strong softness about her that’d been lacking in previous years. No more did she fish for debate.</p><p>Foley was much the same. He stood tall, having grown considerably, and possessed a sense of hard-fought self. However, the boy still wore the same crooked glasses and easy smile. No more did he look outward for acceptance.</p><p>Mr. Lancer fought off a smile, knowing he would—against all odds, and there were a lot of odds—miss these students come next fall.</p><p>But for now, as they stood there watching him skeptically, he still had to find some way to console them. “If our friend Winchell is correct, I am of the opinion that you are two of the people closest to Danny. Meaning, I think your best bet would be to establish an open line of communication. To…talk, about what is bothering you.”</p><p>The goth was chewing on her lip again, staring at him with narrowed violet eyes.</p><p>At first, Lancer was rather certain he’d said the wrong thing. She was likely seconds from spitting in his face and calling it a day.</p><p>To his surprise, Miss Manson merely nodded briskly at him. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, Mr. Lancer, but I think you have a point.”</p><p>Well. Ouch. That hurt.</p><p>Leave it to Manson to veil a compliment in a well crafted and nuanced insult.</p><p>He didn’t ramble <em>that </em>much, did he? He’d always liked to think his lectures were very point-full.</p><p>“Yeah,” Mr. Foley acquiesced with his friend. “You’re not half-bad, Edward.”</p><p>Mr. Lancer sputtered, reeling at the use of his first name from a student. “E-excuse me, young man, you are not to be privy to such—”</p><p>“Oh, please.” The young man waved a hand, effectively cutting of his teacher’s burgeoning word vomit, “I’ve been browsing the deep web since I was in diapers. Finding your name was a cinch.”</p><p>Lancer pinched the bridge of his nose, internally begging the Lord and his angels for help.</p><p>Once he was significantly more composed, he opened his eyes again. “I suppose I’ll have to let it slide, just this once. But if I hear you using it in class it’s an immediate detention.”</p><p>“’Course, Ed.” Foley made some kind of gesture at him (‘finger guns’, perhaps? He’d heard they were quite popular with the youth nowadays), “I wouldn’t dream of sullying your good name.”</p><p>Mr. Lancer wasn’t sure if was all his time spent around the youth finally getting to him, but he found himself reverting to sarcasm. “I am so assured, Mr. Foley.”</p><p>He felt mildly disgusted as soon as the words left his mouth. What was he, some common wench?</p><p>With one last look over their shoulders, their eyes scanning the sky above him like they half-expected to see something familiar there (and were disappointed when they didn’t)—which, later, Lancer would notice was rather strange behaviour—they turned the corner, disappearing behind the school.</p><p>Shaking his head, Mr. Lancer pulled his keys out of his pocket and headed toward the staff parking lot, trying to push this latest encounter to the back of his mind.</p><p>The lights illuminating the parking lot seemed dimmer than usual, the air becoming increasingly cold as he approached his non-descript white sedan closest to the entrance. His breath misted in front of him, goosebumps trailing up and down his spine.</p><p>Strange weather they were having, but this was Amity after all. Strange was to be expected.</p><p>His footsteps echoed against the pavement, the sound nearly deafening in the silence.</p><p>As he stepped towards his car, keys swinging between his fingers, a chill rocked through him so hard that he gasped. The keys slipped from his grasp and hit the pavement with a rattle.</p><p>It wasn’t <em>too</em> strange for Amity’s temperature to fluctuate.</p><p>Four years ago, when ghosts had first started coming out of the woodwork, the whole city had become a little ‘screwy’, as his students would say.</p><p> Cold spots and odd chills were to be expected, though decidedly not welcome.</p><p>Reassured, he bent to grab his keys and reached toward the driver’s side door, humming to negate the dwarfing quiet of the night around him. It almost seemed as though the parking lot were waiting; breath bated.</p><p>...But that was just his mind being ridiculous. All that teaching on personification was clearly starting to get to him.</p><p>And then he saw the handle of his car door. Or, more accurately, saw what was coating it. Dripping from it, viscously.</p><p>Ectoplasm. A glowing, greenish substance that resembled blood a little too much for Lancer’s comfort.</p><p>The liquid was coating it, sliding down the previously clean side of his car. It looked like someone—perhaps some<em>thing</em>—had grasped the handle, leaving its ooze behind.</p><p>Swallowing, Lancer debated turning back to the school. Sure it would be dark and cold inside, but if there was any chance of a ghost being out here…in an abandoned staff parking lot…..</p><p>He shook his head, pulling himself back together.</p><p>There was nothing to fear here. It was probably just some residue from a low-level animal ghost, like that large dog he’d seen around with Phantom.</p><p>For all he knew, the goo could be from this morning. A ghost flying overhead; a complete accident he was only just now discovering.</p><p>That’s right. It was a coincidence, a little hiccup of fate. As his students would say, ‘no biggie’. Nothing to worry about.</p><p>Feeling much more reassured, he popped the door open—</p><p>And came face to face with none other than Phantom himself.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Is that me??? ending on a <em>cliffhanger?!?!!?</em> It's more likely than you'd think</p><p>This is just a little two-parter to ease me back into the DP fandom, since I kind of had to take a break from it for awhile. The last part should be up by next Sunday! </p><p>Thanks for reading, hope you enjoyed my little mess! I'll do my best to answer any questions or fix any typos yall might find </p><p>Stay safe :3</p><p>~ASL</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Lancer is Panicking™</p><p>that's it that's the whole chapter</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>~ PART II ~</p><hr/><p>Later, Lancer would be ashamed to say he cursed.</p><p>He spewed out words he was only accustomed to hearing from his students, words that would have his mother rolling in her grave. Vibrating in her very coffin.</p><p>Absently, as he stared at the glowing form slumped over in his front seat, he was glad that Miss Manson wasn’t around to hear him.</p><p>If she’d heard him curse like that, he’d never be able to live it down.</p><p>At first, Lancer was tempted to slam the car door and turn away. Leave the ghost to finish…whatever it was he was doing in the back of Lancer’s car at this awful hour.</p><p>Maybe the creature was going through a metamorphosis, like a caterpillar. And, if that were the case, then there was definitely no need for Lancer to stick around.</p><p>But then he saw the glowing ectoplasm (it really, really reminded him of blood now) sliding over his upholstery, probably ruining everything, and Lancer knew he couldn’t just walk away.</p><p>Not when the ghost looked so young. Small enough to be one of his students if it weren’t for the supernatural light clinging to his white hair. That, and the green substance.</p><p>Lancer was pretty sure none of his students bled green.</p><p>Although now that Lancer was looking at him, something about the ghost’s appearance was stirring at the back of his mind…like his brain was banging pots and pans together, trying to bring him to a conclusion.</p><p>Like…Phantom looked a lot like….</p><p>He shook his head, flinging the half-baked thought from his mind. <em>Now was not the time for thinking, now was the time for action.</em></p><p>Even if he had no idea what action he was supposed to be taking.</p><p>Fortunately for him, the ghost boy seemed to stir, white lashes flickering against a tan cheek. A groan vibrated from the dead boy, sounding otherworldly in its tremble.</p><p>He supposed that answered one question for him; ghosts did feel pain. Or at least some echo of it.</p><p>Lancer thought the Fentons had debunked that theory, saying they were nothing more than mindless apparitions, but here was this ghost. Clearly bleeding and clearly in some form of—</p><p>The ghost shifted against the seat and flickered. Literally flickered out of sight as Lancer watched.</p><p>One minute he was there, the next—poof! He was gone.</p><p>Lancer held his breath for the count of ten. The ghost was definitely Phantom, the one who’d been protecting their town for several years now.</p><p>He’d never been this close to the ghost child.</p><p>Never seen how thick those brows were, how they cinched in such a familiar way. How he really looked a lot like—</p><p>Just as suddenly as he disappeared, the ghost was back. He (it? Did ghosts have gender identity?) had a hand clasped around his middle as he flopped back against the seat with an “<em>Ouch</em>. That sucked.”</p><p>“Are you…alright?”</p><p>The ghost’s head swivelled so fast Lancer was surprised it didn’t pop off. (Could ghosts do that? Remove their heads???)</p><p>“Lancer?” Phantom squinted up at him, then over the man’s shoulder, like he half-expected to find someone else there. “What are you doing here?”</p><p>Ignoring the logistics of just <em>how </em>the ghost knew his name, Lancer fumbled around for an answer.</p><p>“I. Well. You looked in need of assistance, I suppose.” Rarely was he a lot a loss for words; this would be an occasion for the history books.</p><p>“Oh.” The ghost blinked, those white lashes de-railing Lancer’s less than coherent train of thought. He’d never seen white eyelashes before. And where those…freckles on his cheeks? <em>Green</em> freckles? “Where am I?”</p><p>“You are in my car,” Lancer answered. “You are bleeding all over my car, actually. Possibly bleeding out, too.”</p><p>“Oh,” He said again, looking down and wincing at the amount of green pooling over his hands. “Right. Skulker—the hunter ghost, he had some kind of harpoon…got me in the…” The ghost wheezed, his chest rattling with the effort of breathing, apparently, “stomach.”</p><p>Last Lancer knew, ghosts didn’t breathe. They didn’t need to breathe.</p><p>The Fentons had always said they didn’t breathe, but this one was clearly breathing. Did that mean the Fentons were wrong? Or that Phantom had some kind of human complex?</p><p>But Lancer could worry about that later, right now he had to figure out how to save the ghost’s life.</p><p>He’d be darned if he was going to let him bleed out in his front seat. Not after all Phantom had done for them, even if the ghost only protected them because of some weird territory obsession like the Fenton’s claimed.</p><p>“I have a first aid kit under my backseat, you stay put.” And then Lancer was slamming the door, ignoring the green energy on his hand.</p><p>He thought he heard the ghost mutter “Where else would I go? Connecticut?” in a brutally sarcastic voice before Lancer popped open the back-passenger door, bending so he could peer into the crummy darkness of his vehicle.</p><p>He found two empty water bottles, his own personal copy of <em>Moby Dick</em>, and a student essay he’d been avoiding marking. For months now.</p><p>Brushing past the paper proudly claiming it belonged to <em>Danny Fenton</em>, he seized the first aid kit and yanked it out.</p><p>“There we are,” He said, more to himself than the car’s ghostly occupant. Then he was clambering back to the front of the vehicle, lowering himself painstakingly into the seat opposite Phantom.</p><p>“Hold still,” He murmured as he cracked the first aid kit open, gazing hopelessly at its contents.</p><p>They’d been required to take first aid training in teacher’s college, but that was years ago. Now, Lancer stared hopelessly at the hundreds of foreign materials spilling out of the kit.</p><p>“Here,” The ghost boy said, propping himself up against the arm rest. “Let me see.”</p><p>Lancer offered up the kit and watched, bemusedly, as the ghost rifled through its contents with the eye of a practiced nurse.</p><p>“I’ll need the gauze and butterfly bandages for now, but I’ll definitely have to suture it later. Or maybe get Sa—” He cut himself off so abruptly it looked like it hurt, his breath coming out in another wheezing gasp. “That is, I’ll just do it myself.”</p><p>Lancer nodded, not understanding the ghost’s sudden secrecy. “I take it this happens often?”</p><p>A laugh—an oddly familiar laugh that had Lancer’s mind doing somersaults again—and then the ghost was pulling out his chosen materials. “Something like that.”</p><p>As he watched the ghost work, those green-stained gloves readying alcohol swabs and antiseptic cream, Lancer’s mind wandered. Wandered to the edge of conclusions he didn’t like, nor fully understood.</p><p>“Could you—” The ghost cut himself off with a hiss as he poured more alcohol over his wound. “Could you hold this. <em>Please</em>.”</p><p>The teacher’s hand was moving before he’d even given it permission to. He never wanted to hear that kind of tone from anyone ever again, even if it was from a supposedly dead creature.</p><p>He took the gauze and butterfly bandages, still watching as the ghost shucked off his ectoplasm covered gloves.</p><p>Lancer blinked. He’d always just assumed those were attached to him. He was extremely surprised to see tanned, scarred skin beneath.</p><p>“Pour this…over my hands…” Phantom gestured to the alcohol. “They need to be—” The ghost swayed where he sat, hands going slack before tightening again. “Quickly.”</p><p>Lancer obliged, pouring a sparing amount of the pungent liquid over the ghost’s hands. He wasn’t sure how much they’d need later.</p><p>“Thank you.” The ghost then stretched back, wincing as he leaned against the window. It looked incredibly cramped. Angled differently, Lancer was able to see the green, jagged hole torn in the ghost’s suit.</p><p>Beneath it, glowing too bright in the car’s darkened interior, was a large, gaping wound. It was deep, really deep.</p><p>The green substance was oozing all over, slicking the tanned skin that could apparently be found everywhere beneath the black-white suit.</p><p>“Pass me the alcohol again. Quick. Please.” Phantom’s hands shook where they reached out, but his voice was steady. The tone of someone who was used to handling crises situations.</p><p>Lancer obeyed, handing back the plastic bottle and clenching its lid between two of his fingers. The interior of the car flickered as Phantom poured more alcohol over the wound, his aura dimming and brightening in time with his quickening breaths.</p><p>“Backpack.” The ghost suddenly snapped out after a particularly dim flash. “I need you to grab my backpack. It’s…it should be…down there.”</p><p>An ungloved finger pointed to beneath Lancer’s seat. The teacher bent immediately, his fingers finding fabric.</p><p>“This?” He asked, pulling up the unexpectedly pink monstrosity. Lancer didn’t know how he’d missed it before.</p><p>Again, his mind wobbled. <em>Familiar</em>, it seemed to whisper. <em>You know it, too. Always known it. So very, very familiar. </em></p><p>“Yes,” The ghost boy let out a relieved sound, halfway between a gasp and a sob. Lancer felt fairly certain he’d be doing a lot more than gasping if someone’d stuck a harpoon in <em>his </em>stomach, but to each their own. “Thanks.”</p><p>Obviously the backpack belonged to Phantom, what with the way his fingers worked it open with such practiced ease, flying over the zippers and pulling at the little corners of it.</p><p>Which was odd, given that Lancer had thought the backpack belonged to someone else. Someone he knew, someone who’s essay was sitting in the back of his car. Someone who—</p><p>Phantom, giving a little hum of satisfaction, yanked a small metal canister out of the bag. It was cylindrical and had the name <em>FentonWorks </em>emblazoned along the side.</p><p>Again, another sign. Another clue to this big spiderweb of lies that was about to come crashing down on the both of them.</p><p>The ghost popped the cap, sniffed at the bottle’s contents, then downed it in one go.</p><p>Lancer wrinkled his nose against the scent of lemon and sulfur that infused the air, making the hairs at the back of his neck stand on end.</p><p>It felt like the aftermath of a lightning strike; whatever was in that canister wasn’t natural.</p><p>“Mind telling me what you just drank?” He asked.</p><p>Phantom startled, like he’d forgotten Lancer was there. When he turned, his eyes were so bright that Lancer had to blink away their after-image. “It’s like the ghostly equivalent of Gatorade. Me and T—” He cut himself off again, “myself, figured out how to make them awhile back. Tastes like TV static, but all-in-all they’re not half bad.”</p><p>Mr. Lancer nodded, then said slowly, “Gatorade.”</p><p>“Gatorade,” The ghost agreed, tossing the canister back into his bag. “Gives me an energy boost and improves my healing factor a bit, but—” He let out a strangled sort of whine.</p><p>“What?” Lancer asked, leaning into the ghost’s space. “What is it? Do you need me to…” He trailed off, staring at the various pieces of first-aid kit.</p><p>Even if he knew what Phantom needed, there was very little chance that Lancer would actually be able to do it.</p><p>“Just—” Again, a wheeze followed by a concerningly wet cough. “Just pass me my phone, please. Please just pass me my—”</p><p>“I got it.” Lancer unzipped one of the backpack’s pockets, knowing he’d find the phone inside. After all, he’d seen Danny pull it out from that very pocket enough in class.</p><p>He slipped it into Phantom’s open hand and watched, a little disbelievingly, as he typed in Fenton’s password.</p><p>Lancer’s brain was coming to a conclusion, it was just doing it very slowly. Like molasses being poured into a bowl, crawling to a stop. After all, he couldn’t be <em>right</em>.</p><p>This couldn’t all mean what he was beginning to think it meant.</p><p>The ghost’s ectoplasm covered finger slipped over the call button a few times, but then the device began to vibrate with a tell-tale dial tone.</p><p>One ring, two, and then the other caller answered.</p><p>They were breathless, they were female. They were undoubtedly the very same Sam Manson Mr. Lancer had been speaking to earlier.</p><p><em>“Bloody </em>hell<em>, Danny. Bloody, bloody hell!”</em> It was decidedly Sam, though Lancer was certain he’d never heard her sound like that. <em>“Are you okay? Stupid question. Are you safe? Where are you? I’m coming to get you right now, just—”</em></p><p>Another voice cut into the audio, deeper than it’d been in his freshman year literacy class but still very recognizable. <em>“Is that Danny? Tell him I’m gonna kick his scrawny little a—”</em></p><p>Sam cut Tucker off, her voice breathy with barely concealed panic. <em>“Danny, please say somethi—”</em></p><p>Lancer startled as the phone slipped from the ghost’s hand, bouncing once on the centre counsel before landing on the floor with a thud. Phantom was unconscious.</p><p>His head had lolled back against the seat, his hand in his lap. He looked—dead. He looked like a ghost.</p><p>Maybe Amity really had been taking for granted how <em>alive </em>Phantom managed to look all the time. How animated he was.</p><p>Lancer was frozen, mind completely numb. For a moment, he believed the ghost had died. Died again? In Lancer’s car, of all places.</p><p>But then he saw the boy’s chest rising and falling, the white fringe in front of his nose barely stirred by a weak breath.</p><p>Not dead. Not dead yet, at least.</p><p>Sam was still talking into the phone, her voice getting increasingly more frantic, and Lancer decided he was going to have to do something about that.</p><p>“Hello?” He said, scooping up the device and holding it gingerly to his ear. He never had gotten into the whole ‘mobile device’ trend.</p><p>They were expensive and uncouth and—</p><p>And Danny Phantom was changing. Right before his eyes.</p><p>A ring of white appeared at the ghost’s middle and inverted, gobbling up Phantom’s suit and leaving jeans and a red-white tee in its place.</p><p>Black hair against pale skin, faint freckles.</p><p>Danny Fenton.</p><p>Danny Fenton was Danny Phantom.</p><p>Lancer had known it. Had known it was coming; had fully expected it to come. But <em>knowing </em>and <em>seeing </em>were two entirely different things.</p><p>A ragged gasp escaped his mouth, a sound Lancer didn’t even know he’d been capable of producing.</p><p>The realisation was accompanied by stone-cold calm.</p><p>That was Lancer’s student sitting there, ghostly super-hero persona or not, and all that green blood was swiftly turning red. Lancer would rather die himself than ever, <em>ever </em>fail one of his students.</p><p>He’d won the Best Teacher Award fifteen years running; nothing as small as a ghostly teen being in his classroom was going to throw a wrench in Lancer’s groove.</p><p>He took his job very seriously.</p><p>“<em>Mr. Lancer? What? Why are you—where’s Danny?” </em>He had to hold the phone away from his ear Sam was talking so loudly.</p><p>“He’s sitting next to me. He’s,” Lancer glanced at the slumped form in the seat beside him. “He is not doing well.”</p><p>
  <em>“Where are you?” </em>
</p><p>Lancer stared out the window, feeling as though he had to confirm they really were still at the school. His whole world seemed to have just shattered around him; he was half surprised to find himself…here.</p><p>Parked in an abandoned school parking lot, the washed-out lights of the football field casting narrows shadows.</p><p>The <em>Casper High: Home of the Ravens!</em> logo painted onto the side of the school seemed especially juvenile now.</p><p>“We’re at the school,” He stuck his keys into the ignition. “Where are you?”</p><p>Sam hesitated, as if she still didn’t want to give away their secrets.</p><p>Lancer was half-tempted to tell her that the cat (or ghost, take your pick) really was out of the bag. To put it simply, the gig was up.</p><p><em>“My house. My parents are at a conference this weekend, take him to my house.” </em>She still sounded hesitant, but at least she was talking. <em>“And, Mr. Lancer?”</em></p><p>He swung out of the parking lot, his wheels screeching. For the first time in over a decade, he realized he’d forgotten to put his seatbelt on. “Yes, Miss Manson?”</p><p><em>“I wouldn’t worry about traffic laws tonight,” </em>He heard her swallow audibly. <em>“If you catch my meaning.”</em></p><p>Lancer watched the speedometer climb, probably higher than it ever had. “Understood, Miss Manson.” He reamed around a corner, taking one hand off the wheel to fasten Danny’s seatbelt around him. “We’ll be right there. Hold on, Mr. Fenton.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Soooooo... this might have turned into a 3 parter because I have literally no self-control ✌️</p><p>Thank you everyone for reading! And for your lovely kudos and comments, thank you thank you thank you!!!!</p><p>Stay safe, see ya next week </p><p>~ASL</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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